


Star Wars: It's an Old Song

by Rainbow_squirrels_7



Series: Star Wars: Epithets [2]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Gen, apparently I can only write sequel trilogy stuff but oh well lol, cuz 7s the best obv you can fite me on this, i didnt tag Crylo cuz I dont like him but he's here unfortunately, i wrote this ignoring the 8th and 9th movies mostly cuz I don't remember them as well as 7, you don't gotta read the other work in the series but you can if you want
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:08:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22440025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rainbow_squirrels_7/pseuds/Rainbow_squirrels_7
Summary: It's an old song, it's an old tale from way back when.It's an old song. And that is how it ends.That's how it goes- don't ask why, brother don't ask howHe could have come so closeThe song was written long ago.And that is how it goes.-Road to Hell (reprise), from Hadestown the musical
Series: Star Wars: Epithets [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1614694
Comments: 4
Kudos: 5





	Star Wars: It's an Old Song

**Author's Note:**

  * For [4eHeretic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/4eHeretic/gifts), [SoulSong](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SoulSong/gifts), [summer_days](https://archiveofourown.org/users/summer_days/gifts).



**Star Wars: It’s an Old Song**

“Let me tell you a story.”

“You know you’re not the one I want to see.”

“Believe me, if I had any say in the matter, you would not have been my first choice, either.”

It’s a dream they’re standing in, the boy in the mask knows that much. Stretching for forever in every direction around the boy and the ghost is an expanse of flat ground; a few inches of water was pooled around the boy’s feet, stretching outwards as well, making the entire landscape act as a mirror for the sky, cloudy and white- making the space all around them completely blank.

“I want to talk to my grandfather.” The boy growls, despite what had just been said.

“Your grandfather has better things to do than speak to rebellious children.” The semi-transparent ghost in front of him is a very old man garbed in flowing brown and beige robes, the edges of his form glowing with a soft blue light. He pulls down the hood draped over his head, and the boy sees his that hair and beard are short and white, as though they’d been bleached by the sun. “And I suppose I’ve been dealing with rebellious children for so long that it’s just become my lot in life- or in death, as it were.” The very old man eyes the boy up and down, “I _trained_ your grandfather, so I can certainly take whatever foolishness _you’ve_ brought upon his family name.”

The boy reaches to his side for his weapon, his jagged sword of red fire, but grasps nothing. He looks up to see the silver of its forked metal hilt in the very old man’s hand. The boy snarls again, lips pulled back like a wild beast showing its fangs.

“So angry.” The ghost is completely unfazed, almost sounding bored- though anyone who was not the boy would have been able to hear the slightest note of sadness in his voice. It’s anger he’s seen before- anger he had hoped to never see again.

He waves a hand, and the hilt disappears- this is a dream after all. He takes a step forward, away from the boy, and perfectly circular ripples travel outwards through the water as he walks. The boy is forced to follow, though it angers him- as all things do.

“Let me tell you a story,” the ghost repeats as they walk.

As they do, the ghost’s appearance changes. His hair turns from white to a deep and rich auburn, his beard becoming more full and the lines across his face getting shallower (the sadness in his bright blue eyes doesn’t change, it’s been there too long, gone too deep). The much younger man now standing beside the boy begins, saying, “A long time ago and far away, there was a king.”

Around the two of them, the sky shifts, becoming a clear, cloudless summer blue, and it’s reflected beneath their feet as well. “He ruled above all the beings in his land, over everything his eyes could see. His power made him unquestioned, and the peoples’ fear made him unconquerable.”

That’s what he himself’s been promised, the boy in the mask thinks, what the scarred and shriveled husk of a being assures him will come from the darkness in his heart and the power he’s gained because of it. The ghost glares at him disapprovingly, hoping the boy would notice that he was backing the villain of this song- but no such luck. 

“The only thing that made the king happy was wealth.” The man continues, “He hoarded gold and jewels, never satisfied even with everything he could imagine at his beck and call.” Clouds appear in the sky around them, and conversely in the water at their feet. They are round and white at first, drifting lazily in a breeze the boy cannot feel. Then they grow, becoming as towering as mountains, growing dark and gray, the sky darkening. The ghost beside the boy speaks again, “Then, a god grants a wish for the king, bringing his greatest desire to fruition: anything he touched would turn to gold.”

“That’s impossible.” The boy spits the words like venom.

“This is a story.” The man doesn’t miss a beat. “That often happens, in case you didn’t know.”

The boy grumbles, and the ghost raises a patronizing eyebrow (the boy thinks it as such, anyway), looking down at him, and goes on, “With the slightest touch, just the barest brush of his hand on anything around him, whatever was in his grasp turned to solid gold. The plants in his garden, the path beneath his feet that he reached down to, the chairs around his dining table- everything. Solid gold.”

“That doesn’t sound too bad.” The boy concedes, “He got everything he ever wanted.”

The ghost frowns, rubbing at his beard with a hand, “When the king sat down for dinner, the fruit he reached for turned to gold. The water in his glass- gold; the decadent cakes prepared for him, the fish, the meats- everything.” The man faces the boy, and the sky is a storm above them, “Do you understand? The king had everything he ever wanted, and still could not be satisfied.”

The boy says nothing, his lip twisted in a sneer. The ghost sighs and goes on, “His teeth broke on the golden food in front of him, and the king cried out in fear. Hearing his shout, his daughter came into the room- his daughter who still cared for him even after all the bad he’d done.”

The sky turns black above them, starless- reflected below, the boy and the ghost could have been in an empty void. “The king reached out to embrace his daughter, but at his touch, she froze.” The only light in the void comes from the ghost. There is so much sadness in the man’s eyes as he stares at the boy in the mask. “The king looked down to see that his touch had turned his daughter to gold. She’d become a statue, cold and dead, and the king was horrified at what he had done, and what he could do.” 

“So what happened?” The boy is frustrated, “There has to be some sort of cure, a way to change everything back to the way it was.”

The man shakes his head, “No, this end has the king starve to death. His greed and want blinded him from seeing that his gift was truly a curse.”

Growling in anger, the boy spreads his arms wide, “Why? Then why tell this story? What’s the point of it?”

The ghost looks down, a fringe of his auburn hair falling in his eyes, “You still don’t understand, do you?” He shakes his head again, and when he looks back up at the boy, his appearance has changed- once again, he is the very old and sad man, with white hair and wrinkled lines on his face, deepened by age.

“If you had been paying attention, you might have noticed that I said ‘this end’, boy.” The dark is still surrounding them as the very old man speaks, but a small light has appeared on the horizon, hinting at a coming sunrise. “Which of course implies that the king’s death is not the only end to this story.”

“Horrified at himself and what he’d done, the king fell to his knees, weeping at his daughter’s golden feet. He was starving, but the pain of causing the death of one he loved hurt him more.” The sky is brightening around them, a gold and rosy hue breaking through the black. “He realized that gold and power wasn’t what he wanted- the love of his family mattered more. He saw that he had done wrong. And he saw that everything was his fault, but worse than that, he had chosen to do it all.”

The ghost stops walking, turning to face the boy. He is backlit by the sunrise, a shining halo surrounding his form. “The god had granted the king’s wish to teach him this lesson. Seeing that not only had he learned it, but that he came to this realization on his own, the god instructed the king to wash his hands in the river.”

“The king did as he was told, and saw golden flecks flowing down the stream from where he dipped his hands in the water. Upon returning home, he found that everything he had turned to gold was brought back to the way it was before.” The ghost smiles sadly, “And his daughter was alive again. He was able to embrace her in his arms- now, his family was what made him happy. The king realized the error of his ways, and decided to share his great fortune with the people he ruled. With a family and a kingdom who loved him, the king was no longer a cruel man, and he saw that power and hate and selfishness only leads to great sadness.”

“And was the king satisfied?” The boy asks, but he hadn’t noticed that the ghost had begun to fade. The endless sky and earth around him fades as well, and the boy in the mask wakes up.

His question goes unanswered.

***

“Tell me a story.” The scavenger says to the ghost.

“You’re a little too old for stories, now- aren’t you?” The ghost replies, but just a hint of a smile, one not hid well and a roguish one at that, is spread across his face; he could almost be a hologram, but his form never flickers, his color more defined.

“Of course not!” The girl returns. She smiles as well, knowing that he will give in. “Stories are important!”

“Alright, fine.” He sits next to her, on the rusted-out leg of a tall, metal, walking beast- half sunk into the dunes, the inside of which has been hollowed out as a home for the scavenger. He has no need to sit, being a ghost, but he does anyway- she’s long known he never was one to follow rules.

The orange light of sunset paints the ghost a deep golden hue, shining through his semi-transparent form. The winds across the desert have calmed since the morning, but the whipping sand and dust blowing through the air passes through the ghost- while it tosses around the scavenger’s dark hair even as it is tied in three tangled knots lined up down her skull.

Her ghost doesn’t speak in the same way she does- his voice is deeper of course, but his words are flatter, blunter; he’s not from this desert world, though the scavenger can surely say the same. His desert was different, and she knows he‘s from one, though he has not said as much. The ghost glares at the sandy expanse of land around them with a disdain that is only seen in the eyes of those who lived in it.

“A story...” the ghost repeats. He thinks for a few moments before continuing. Once, the scavenger might have thought that ghosts didn’t need to think; they were dead after all.

He turns to face her, sitting next to him. “How about the one about the poet and the girl and the god?”

She nods excitedly, but the ghost hesitates. “It’s an old song, and a sad one too.” He looks her in the eyes, one of his has a faint jagged scar running through it, barely visible against the glowing sky. “Sure you want to hear it?”

_A song... what a strange thing to call it._

“Yes of course!” And the ghost shakes his head defeated, his long, unkempt hair falling in his eyes- the scavenger knows he’s not truly disappointed, neither of the two of them are strangers to sadness, though. But what divides them in this is the girl’s unshakeable, boundless optimism- a roaring flame or burning sun despite the darkness, her unbreakable promise that things would turn out for the better even after so much bad had happened. It wasn’t something the ghost had in life, that kind of faith.

He looks out towards the sunset- only one bright star on the horizon in this desert, not like the two he had seen sink below the dunes in his childhood. He looks out there and begins.

“A long time ago and far away-“

“You have to say ‘once upon a time’!” The girl interrupts.

He sighs, “Once upon a time, _Snippy_.” He calls her that sometimes, smiling, but his face would fall for just half a second afterwards, and the scavenger knew the name wasn’t for her to keep. It was borrowed, one belonging to someone else- a reminder of a dear friend the scavenger sometimes resembled too much for the ghost to take.

“Once upon a time,” he says again, “there was a poet. He was a musician and a bard and a storyteller, but ‘poet’s easiest to remember. He was such an incredible talent- a prodigy even, that everything around him: the plants and rocks and creatures and beings would gather to hear him sing.”

The ghost pauses like he suddenly remembered something, “My mother... told me this story,” And his form changes, suddenly. He is no longer a tall young man- the scavenger finds herself sitting next to a small boy with a mop of light hair dressed in ragged clothes; there’s a hard look in his eyes that no child should have (she has it herself, she knows- though it certainly couldn’t have been as deep as her ghost’s. The harsh gaze doesn’t leave him even when he appears in his usual older state).

“The poet met a girl, and he fell in love.” The ghost, now a boy continues. “She was like an angel, she was everything to him. All his songs were happy because of her, and it filled everything and everyone around them with joy. She loved his music, and they were happy.”

“What happened to them?” The scavenger asks.

The ghost’s appearance changes again, becoming an older boy with close-cropped hair except for a single, long and thin braid tossed over his shoulder. “They got married.” He answers, “But it was said- it was _prophesied_ that it wasn’t to last.”

The girl is silent, waiting for him to speak again. And he does, after a moment, his form changing again- this time back to the long-haired, scarred and tired young man, with apparently the weight of the entire galaxy on his shoulders. “And it didn’t. She died.”

The wind blows for a moment there, as he goes quiet once more. The scavenger watches the ghost open one of his clenched fists- this one covered in a thick black glove ringed with metal. He says finally, “But the poet found a way that he might be able to bring her back.”

“How?”

“He had to ask the god of death.” He’s looking down now, at the shadows that are becoming elongated as the sun dips lower. “He journeyed beneath the ground to the realm of the dead, into the darkness below to try and save her.”

“The god of death refused him at first, refused to let him save the girl he loved. But the poet wouldn’t hear that answer. He used his gift, singing the most beautiful song anyone or anything had ever heard- singing it for the god.” The sky is more red than orange now, the sinking sun nearly gone. The glow peeking through the ghost’s form deepens the soft blue light outlining him to indigo and then violet. “He sang it, hoping to change the god’s mind, and it worked.”

“So the poet was able to get her back?” The scavenger asks, forgetting what her ghost had said about the sad song. “And they were happy again?”

The ghost shakes his head grimly, “The god let the poet leave the realm of death with the girl, but he had to pass a test. A test of pride and of faith.” He frowns deeper as he says, “The poet could lead his love out of the underworld, but he wasn’t allowed to look back behind him to make sure that she was really there.”

He pauses again for a moment, “As the poet was leading her, he began to think that the god tricked him. He couldn’t hear the footsteps of his love behind him, and he thought that maybe, she wasn’t even there at all, had never been there. He began to wonder if both the god and his love betrayed him.”

“So, steps from the daylight...” the ghost’s appearance changes once again; something like fire begins to move across his form, eating at him and burning his skin away until there’s hardly any of him remaining. His glove crumbles under heat that the scavenger can’t feel, revealing a jointed metal hand in the place of a flesh one. She watches in horror as his other arm and both legs are swallowed by plumes of flame as he says, “Moments away from being with his love again, he turns. And he sees. He sees that... she was there the whole time.”

“There was nothing to be done, though.” The ghost’s voice is strained, his throat burned and blackened as he chokes the words out of shriveled lungs. “The god of death took her back, and he was left alone. It was his own fault, and that’s how the story ends.”

His form changes one more time, slower than before. The soft, blue glowing light around him dims, and thick armor covers his body, a long, dark cape sprouting from his shoulders. Around his head, a helmet forms- one the scavenger immediately recognizes. One every being in the galaxy could recognize.

A dark mask with red eyes. The mask of a monster.

She is filled with a fear that is so all-encompassing that she can’t speak, gasping for air with wide eyes. She starts to shrink back, but stops herself. “S-so... so...” she takes a breath, “So... why tell this story?” The girl finds her voice, rising above her fear. “If it’s so sad- he came so close, but still failed in the end. Why tell a story you know is going to end badly?”

There was a mechanized sound, a wheezing burst of air forced through metal and robotic parts- the sound of a breath from the man turned monster sitting beside the girl. “Because he tried,” came the deep voice from behind the mask.

The ghost’s glow returns as his dark helmet begins to melt away, and the scavenger sees his face again- hardly human anymore, made of charred flesh and nearly rotting skin. But his eyes are luminous as he says, “We tell this story because we have to believe that it might turn out this time, even if you know how it ends. That’s hope, little one. You of all people should know about hope.”

The scavenger looks up at the sky, seeing the nearly-faded lines of starship contrails turning bright orange and pink and purple in the setting sunlight. “Hope is the most important thing you can have,” she says, “Hope that things might be good tomorrow, and if not then, the next day, or the next, or...” she trails off, thinking of hundreds if not thousands of tick marks scratched into a metal wall. “Because...”

“Because?” The ghost prompts, and the girl faces him again, seeing that the shaggy-haired young man has returned. His crooked grin is back as well, something that the scavenger is sure must have been absent for a very long time during her ghost’s life. She sees it every time he appears to her, though; somehow in death, he found the happiness, or the redemption, possibly, that he couldn’t in life.

“Because... if you don’t believe that things are going to get better, then you’ll never try to make it that way yourself.” The sun finally fades beyond the horizon, but the light isn’t gone, then. The deep blue-black expanse of sky stretching far above them is dotted with the lights of so many stars and planets- too many to count. The scavenger takes a breath, “You have to hope that it’s possible, because there are so many reasons to try.”

The ghost is silent again, a young man looking up at the stars, like so many did before him, and how so many do after him still. “And you’ll try, won’t you?” He ignores the teachings of a little green creature he once knew: _do or do not_ \- **no**. Sometimes, all one can do is try.

“I will.” The girl answers.

And for a moment there, the ghost and the scavenger are no longer weary, no longer tired of carrying the weight of the galaxy that bent down their backs. Because _one_ having hope can call a spark up from smoldering ashes, but it can only spread when shared and ignited over and over by others.

The ghost closes his eyes, looking down into the very fabric of space and time that was woven across the universe, into the threads making up a quilt of stars and planets and beings and words and love- _so much love_. He sees what is to happen then, a foggy, blurry scene that is dark and full of hate and fear. And he sees so many outcomes, so many possible futures- each one of them darker than the last. But through it all, the scavenger (for she is more important than she knows, of course) still shines. There, she is no longer alone, and never will be again; she’s surrounded by friends and family who love her more than anything- all of them shining together, a fire of hope through the darkness. All of them carrying the stars, all of them trying to make something better, together.

***

“Are you here to teach me a lesson?” The old man, once a boy-knight doesn’t turn around to face a ghost that just appeared. Just a moment before, he had been alone on the green island in the middle of the ocean. Alone, as he had convinced himself he needed to be.

“No, I’m here to tell you a story.” The voice is different than the one he expected, lighter and full of flowers- not the backwards speech and creaking words of an ancient green creature he once knew.

The old knight turns around to see the ghost: a beautiful lady with a waterfall of curling brown hair cascading down her back, her head topped with a delicate band of gold. She stands in a dress that was dark blue, flowing around her in waves. Glinting diamonds and tiny flowers poke through her curls, but among all this finery, the old man notices a small object clasped in her hand: something bone-white and dull, almost crude compared to the vision of her. Even so, the ghost woman clutches the talisman tightly, like it’s worth more than any of the regalia she wears.

“Mother.” The old man says, and it’s a gasping sound. He’d never met her, not while she was alive, but somehow he knows (like when his twin told him she remembered seeing their mother, though the two of them had hardly been born at the time that she died), he knows exactly who she is.

The queen smiles, “My son.” She reaches for a hand he hadn’t realized he’d lifted towards her. Somehow, even as a ghost, she’s able to hold it- a hand of metal pieces and gears and wires. Her smile turns slightly melancholy as she looks it over, stepping closer toward him and bringing his hand to her lips, pressing a kiss onto his robotic knuckles. “Just like your father,” she says, letting go and reaching up to brush the side of his face- a touch her son leans into. 

“His handiwork, actually.” he whispers into her palm. 

She replies softly, “I know.” 

The old knight is silent for a moment as he pulls away and stands, seeing her completely for the first time. He’s older, much older than she ever had the chance to be. Her life had been the brightest fire, burning with so much intensity and filled with more love than the galaxy could hold. But her flame was snuffed out too soon, quieting her powerful voice- a voice speaking for those who could not do so for themselves, using words to fight for peace instead of weapons. 

“I’m sorry.” He says at length, and he’s not sure which part he’s sorry for. 

She just smiles sadly again, and turns to look out over the cerulean sea surrounding the speck of green and rocks that was the hidden island. Birds with long tails fly in flocks overhead, weaving in between the sea spray and clouds hanging over the water. The warbling, squawking sound of those countless, round, flightless ones is absent for once. The queen takes a seat on the soft grass near the edge of the cliff, staring out at the water; her flowing hair is motionless despite the salty sea breeze. 

He sits next to her, crossing his legs in an almost meditative pose, but it’s more relaxed than the similar ones the ghost had seen in life- in that ancient temple filled with peacemakers that became warriors, with beings who thought a war could be ended with fighting. The old knight has long, wild hair grayed with age- and it pains the queen to see how he’s perhaps unknowingly mirrored his father in that respect. But it’s in that respect alone, the ghost knows; she saw everything, his struggles and failures before his rise to become surrounded in golden light, bringing peace once again where the chosen one was unable. 

His beard, though- she has to grin as she looks at her son, next to her. His father’s best friend, the man who’d trained them both, who had always been at her husband’s side, the one had been with her when she’d breathed her last- he’d be proud of the resemblance.

“Do you want to hear a story?” the ghost asks him. 

“One that’s secretly a lesson?”

“Of course.”

The old man pauses for a moment before answering. “Please.”

The queen looks out over the sea once again, she always loved water- seeing its beauty collected in the pools and ponds of her home always brought her joy. “A long time ago and far away,” she begins, “there was a brilliant mechanic. He was an incredible inventor, but he worked for a cruel king.” 

“So to punish the king for his cruelty, the gods forced his wife to give birth to a terrifying monster.” The ghost’s appearance shifts as she says this, and she’s suddenly draped in a flowing gown painted in the colors of a sunset- soft pinks and purples fading to white and yellow. Her hair shines with golden threads painted through the brown.

“That’s not fair,” the old man says, “It wasn’t her fault.”

“It wasn’t.” The ghost agrees, “But that’s how it goes.” She pauses for a moment, and her son tugs at the grass between the fingers of his metal hand, waiting for her to continue. “The cruel king had the mechanic build an impenetrable fortress to house the monster, a maze used to send his enemies into- for them to never escape from before they were eaten by the beast.”

Her form changes once again, and she’s clad in all white, with a cape wrapped around her shoulders- though in places, the fabric is torn or stained like she’d seen battle. And she’s even younger than before, the old man notices. “To ensure that no one could escape the maze, no one could ever learn how it worked. So the mechanic and his young son were imprisoned in a tall tower.”

“Couldn’t anyone break them out?” The old man thinks of the first time he met his sister, though he hadn’t known they were related at the time. He thinks of the impromptu rescue mission with the smuggler and the very old master (and of course the tall, hairy beast as well), a rescue mission that quickly turned to his sister rescuing her supposed saviors instead. 

“No, the cruel king was too crafty for that. But the mechanic was crafty, too.” The ghost says, “He constructs two pairs of wings in secret, one for himself, and the other for his son. They’re made of feathers and candle wax, and the mechanic planned for their escape to be made by air.”

The ocean waves crash far below at the base of the cliff, throwing salty mist up towards them. The queen continues, “Before they leave, the mechanic instructs his son on how the wings work. If he flies too close to the ocean surrounding their tower, the feathers will become weighed down by water collecting on them. But if he flies too close to the sun, the heat will melt the wax, and the wings will break.”

“It’s a warning against both pride and complacency.” The old man catches on, and his mother smiles proudly and nods once. 

“They make their escape, and the mechanic flew in the middle of the sky- close to neither the sun nor the sea. But the boy ignored his father’s orders, and he soared as high as he could, believing himself invincible.”

His mother’s appearance changes one more time, and she is suddenly clad in gray, her arms wrapped in fabric and a silver belt around her waist. But the old knight notices one more detail with horror, a sight that makes his eyes go wide- the faint purple marks of bruises circling her neck. The ghost of the very old man, his mentor had told him about his mother- about her courage and beauty and strength, but never how she died. “The sun scorched his wings, and the wax melted as they burst apart. And the mechanic’s son fell to his death. All his father could do was watch. And that’s how the story ends.”

The old man is silent. His metallic hand clenches open and closed, open and closed. “So, what’s the lesson? A warning against pride and hubris? Why tell the story?”

“Perhaps that’s part of it,” his mother says gently, taking his hand once more, “But it could also be a story about the choices people make. It was the son’s own choice that brought about his death.”

“But the father warned him.” The old man frowns and looks away, “He probably blamed himself, too.”

“Maybe he did, but it wasn’t his fault.”

“Maybe so.” The old knight sighs. “But maybe it’s the cruel king’s fault, for imprisoning them in the first place, or even for being cruel at all. Or maybe it’s the gods, or the universe, or the Fo-” he cuts himself off, squeezing his eyes shut. 

“It’s my fault.” the old man says at length, eyes still closed, and the ghost knows he isn’t referring to the story anymore. “I could only stand there and watch while he fell, while his wings burned around him.”

 _There’s still good in him_ had been a sigh that escaped the queen’s lips as she breathed out one last time, so many years ago. Her son had echoed the words aloud exactly, years later, and fought against all the darkness in the galaxy to prove them right. Now, they were besmirched by a confused young boy, wearing a mask not to cover his wounds, but to hide from all who might look and see that he had none. 

The ghost doesn’t know if those same words can echo through the boy in the mask, to fill him and the stars with golden light once more. What defines the conditions for redemption- the answer changes with every war, with every revolution. 

“There’s still good…” the queen begins, turning to her son, meeting his eyes- his eyes so filled with pain and regret, “There is still good… in _you_.”

Her words are made of love- love for her children who grew older than she ever was able to be, love for her husband even after everything, love for the galaxy swirling around them in circles and stars and light. And for just a moment there, the old knight allows himself to believe them. 

***

**Author's Note:**

> this started when I realized the similarities between the story of Orpheus and Eurydice and the story of Anakin and Padme. And of course I just Love Greek mythology, so this just kinda happened...  
> I didn't really want to write Kyle Ron's bit-because I hate him, which is why his part is the shortest, and also why Obi-Wan just completely roasts him at every chance
> 
> also it's a gift to my DND buds (who write a Real Good Star War fic!), who I just thought would like it lol...


End file.
